Unwritten History
by IlluminatedShadow
Summary: It's always been complicated between them. Matthew knows this. But sometimes, he wishes it wasn't. Alfred/Matthew. Matthew/Arthur
1. Chapter 1

This is just an idea that wouldn't leave me alone and that I wrote to pull me out of a writing slump. I'm not quite sure how I feel about it because I've never really written these characters like this... at least I don't think so... But, in my defense, these guys do have a complicated relationship. And I don't think its always been pretty and happy. Yeah, this is Canada centered.... I like Canada, ok?! (...Somewhere America is crying in a corner...). But yeah, so, experimental fic FTW?

Summary: It's always been complicated between them. Matthew understands this.

Warnings: Language, violence, accidental historical inaccuracy (I blame Alfred's education system), OOCness,

Pairings: None (...yet...), but there might be hints sprinkled throughout. Wanna pick them out? ;)

EDIT: I fail so hard at proofreading. So I edited, adding and subtracting a few things. Thanks to people who pointed out my mistakes, I appreciate it! ^.^

* * *

Arthur smirked, dark green eyes, arrogant and cold, focused on the blond Frenchman across the room standing next to his ambassadors. The other nation was stony-faced, a sharp contrast to the pathetic, utterly defeated man that had fallen to his knees before the island nation earlier.

Arthur had stowed that particular memory away fondly.

Dull eyes, once as bright as sapphires, flickered towards him and Arthur's grin widened when he caught glimmers of restrained hatred.

Francis always was a sore loser.

When the delegates of each country filtered out, the two nations stayed behind.

"Oh, do cheer up, old chap." Arthur said soothingly. But the mocking undertone did not go unnoticed by the elder blond. The sandy-haired nation watched the continental nation's shoulders stiffen, but still the other did not lash out. Instead his eyes narrowed a fraction.

That wasn't enough and Arthur frowned.

"So, where is my darling acquisition?" The Englishman asked casually, watching as Francis's aristocratic hands curled into fists.

Before Francis could respond, the doors opened again and a harried looking woman in dark clothing rushed in, a squirming, red-faced and wailing child in her arms.

Wordlessly, the Frenchman moved and took the toddler into his arms and began to rock him, cooing endearments and reassurances. The nurse bowed and quietly left the room, satisfied that her charge was calming down.

Though this was not the first time Arthur had seen the colony, he was still struck by the lad's similarities to his southern neighbor and his colony, Alfred. When the nurse first rushed in, Arthur had very nearly said "Alfred" and taken the child from her himself.

But it wasn't Alfred. And Francis had moved faster.

The child in his arms sniffled loudly, cheeks still damp with tears, and snuggled into Francis's coat.

It wasn't Alfred, but Arthur won't deny the flare of jealously that rose when he saw how the colony clung to Francis, not even paying the slightest bit of attention to the other nation in the room.

"_Mathieu_." Francis said softly, smiling sweetly at the tiny boy.

"Matthew." Two pairs of eyes looked at him. "His name is Matthew. He's English now."

Francis's pale face darkened with rage.

Still not the reaction he wanted, but, dark green eyes under prominent eyebrows gleamed, it was enough.

* * *

Arthur regarded his young colony thoughtfully, emerald eyes hazy under heavy brows. Matthew returned his gaze, lips curved into a half-smile, his demeanor pleasant.

As though his guardian and brother weren't at each other's throats. Again.

"Matthew," Arthur began, clearing his throat sharply, "I am sure you must know by now that your brother has declared war against me."

"Of course I know. I'm not oblivious like Alfred. Oh, and, perhaps if you didn't interfere with his trade and seize his sailors then maybe..." Matthew said lightly, his expression deceptively innocent.

Arthur scowled. "Mind your tongue, boy." He knew his young colony well enough to realize that the lad was irritated. During their first meeting so long ago, Matthew had smiled sweetly and Arthur had believed his new colony was meek and sweet-tempered. When Francis had stoically transferred Matthew to the Englishman's hold after years of fighting, Arthur had been met with wide eyes that shimmered pretty shades of blue and purple. He was convinced he was holding another Alfred, despite the distant and cold attitude of the child, and had plans to dote on Matthew just as he doted on Alfred.

The very next day, his darling colony made it very clear that he and Alfred were only alike in appearance. Whereas Alfred had loved freely and loudly, Matthew placed distance between his self and his new guardian. Arthur tried to show his love in his own way (a more sensible and proper way, not flamboyantly like a certain pervert), but it was rebuffed. And Arthur didn't have the patience to keep trying so he left the boy in the care of servants and governesses. It was easy at the time. Matthew was a quiet child and stayed out of trouble, unlike Alfred, so Arthur never had reason to worry. And, between being an Empire and dealing with a demanding Alfred, he could not waste time on trying to win over each of his colonies.

Looking back now, he'd admit that perhaps he gave up to quickly on his new colony, despite having been eager to take him from Francis. And, realizing how loyal and kind Matthew turned out to be (to him, to everyone), it almost made him feel ashamed.

But despite his pleasant disposition, gentle manners and kind heart, Matthew could be colder than ice and as scathing and vicious as the winter wind when roused to anger.

"I know you're not happy—"

"He burned down York." Matthew's eyes turned dark with rage and Arthur shuddered.

"Matthew—"

In a few quick strides, Matthew was leaning over Arthur's sturdy desk and tearing down his collar. A grotesque scar marred otherwise flawless, pale skin. The scar stretched across the young colony's heart, scarlet and ragged. Memories of that night came unbidden to Arthur's mind. Images of finding Matthew screaming himself hoarse, eyes damp with unshed tears and hair matted with dirt and sweat, as his skin blistered and bubbled even as the roar of the fire shook the night air. Soldiers flinched and stood helplessly as Matthew's sobs echoed through the fort, the pain of his wound, of the destruction of his town and death of his people replayed in his mind.

The next morning, Matthew was silent. Hand over his heart, uncaring of anything else.

It was then Arthur saw the angry purple bruises on his young colony's wrists.

Matthew voice tore him from his musing and he looked up into wide eyes staring imploringly down at him.

"Please, father." Matthew whispered.

And Arthur remembered how, after Alfred finally left him that day in the rain, he had rushed to Matthew's house, uniform torn and muddied, hoping and chastising himself for hoping that perhaps…

And Matthew had opened the door, dark shadows under his eyes. Before Arthur could say anything, Matthew just looked away and said, "I told him no."

He looked so young. Arthur had embraced him, his voice failing to communicate his relief and joy and apologies for the past and Arthur's mistakes. And Matthew had called him Father.

He looked like Alfred. But he wasn't Alfred.

He was Matthew. And he stayed.

He still looked so young.

"Go ahead." Arthur sighed, resigned.

* * *

"I think it looks much more interesting like this." Matthew commented mildly.

Alfred could only stare in horror at the inferno before his eyes. He could feel the heat of the roaring flames and rivulets of sweat slid down his skin and disappeared into the thick fabric of his uniform. He could feel his skin sizzling and distantly noted that he and Matthew would have similar scars.

One more similarity.

"I know you told me not to take it personally, but…" Matthew trailed off with a small shrug.

But Alfred didn't see it. He could only see his once beautiful, pristine building ablaze with the fires of Hell itself. He could hear the malicious crackle and distant shouts of people. He hoped his Boss made it out safely.

"Why?" He whispered, feeling hot tears slip down his face. He could hear soft footsteps and then the solid presence of his northern neighbor at his side and the brush of curls against his heated face. Matthew's lips were at his ear, his normally pretty eyes reflecting the vibrancy of the scene before them.

From the corner of his eye, he could see his brother, face tear-stained and illuminated by the high blaze and he felt awfully proud to be the one to knock his normally proud and exuberant brother down from his pedestal. He wanted Alfred to suffer just as he suffered that night. Alfred needed to realize that Matthew was not a pushover, was not one to be trifled with.

Alfred understood. And the same words he said laughingly to Matthew were thrown back at him without ornamentation. "It's a war, after all."

Alfred's blood froze and Matthew leaned closer to place a chaste kiss on the corner of Alfred's lips. "Don't take it personally." He breathed, comforting words that scorched the other blond's skin.

And then he stood gracefully and, with one last glance at his handiwork, turned and disappeared into the night's embrace.

Alfred could still feel where Matthew's lips had fleetingly pressed against him long after the younger blond left.

* * *

Matthew knew from the beginning that Alfred was Arthur's favorite. He knew from the moment Arthur forgot about him as soon as Alfred announced his hunger after their first meeting. And, yes, he might have been hurt in the beginning but not for long. He wasn't exactly fond of the Englishman either.

And the servants doted on him and his governesses mothered him. Arthur performed the duties of a father and Matthew was fairly impressed that Arthur still attempted to make himself likable.

Of course, Arthur wasn't like Francis. Francis had spoiled him, announced his love at every opportunity. Francis was the one who took care of him. He only had a nanny when work called the Frenchman away from him.

But Arthur did try. He visited and took Matthew to town. He gave Matthew gifts and tucked him in at night after a bedtime story. But Matthew knew the other man didn't know what else to do to win over his new colony.

And Matthew started to feel guilty. He didn't exactly make it easier for the older nation. At first he had been bitter and angry at being taken away from Francis. Arthur, unlike Francis, was strict and demanded that Matthew speak English at all times and follow a stringent schedule.

But the loneliness got to him, reaching a point where even the people who surrounded him and Kumajirou couldn't even soothe the ache.

So he vowed to give Arthur a chance. Maybe he could become more than a tolerated guardian. Perhaps he'd be around longer than Francis had, longer than those strangers that visited his home in those boats long ago.

But it was too late. Arthur stayed away for longer periods of time and Matthew went on with life. They remained distant. Arthur often forgot his name and Matthew just smiled and forgiveness came easier over time.

Until Alfred came to him, bright-eyed and enthusiastic, and tried to convince him to take independence as well. As tempting as it was (because he was fond of the other blond), Matthew had declined. Even when Alfred's sky blue eyes darkened and his voice rose, Matthew had remained unmoved.

"I said no."

"Fine. Coward. Be subservient to that guy forever! I don't care." Alfred had snarled and Matthew had impassively watched as his neighbor stormed out of the house. He wanted to say that he wasn't staying because he felt he owed Arthur. He was staying because Arthur would one day let him go. Alfred might not.

Years later, when Alfred pinned a writing Matthew against the unforgiving ground as smoke suffocated their senses and fire illuminated the night sky, the older blond said coldly, "Maybe if you had just said yes."

Alfred had wanted Matthew to regret his decision.

Matthew regretted nothing.

* * *

Matthew had to stay silent during the negotiations. He glared hatefully at Arthur the entire time.

Arthur pretended not to notice.

Alfred didn't take his eyes away from Matthew.

Matthew didn't speak to Arthur and the Englishman left early the next morning.

* * *

*scampers back to her hiding place* Comments? Criticisms? General thoughts? Oh, and any questions too. I'll do my best to clear stuff up.


	2. Chapter 2

So I've decided to update this. Thanks to everyone who reviewed and expressed interest in continuing to read this dark little fic of mine. -blush- Yeah, I'm kinda letting my darker ideas run free with this. I like sweet and fluffy family dynamics a lot, don't get me wrong. But sometimes, I want something a bit more twisted and dark. While Alfred and Matthew seem to have a sweet, brotherly relationship, I like to think that it wasn't that nice in the beginning. What with Manifest Destiny and Anglophobia and such. Oh, and because there isn't much interaction (that I've read in the strips) between Canada and England (and the latter's tendency to forget someone who lived in his house for a while) I've decided to twist that. So, yeah, this story is confusing, I know and I'm sorry. But, I'll clear up things at the bottom. ^^

Warnings: sexual situations, mentions of violence, OOCness, hints of slash, potentially twisted history

Pairings: hints of Alfred/Matthew, hints of Matthew/Arthur

Disclaimer: I claim no ownership.

* * *

"You're so cold to me, Mattie." Alfred pouted, bright blue eyes staring dolefully at the younger blond who sat across from him. Physically, Matthew looked like an adolescent, a child teetering on the edge of manhood. His face was still round and eyes wide. Though when Matthew gave him an unimpressed look and took another sip from the delicate china teacup, Alfred thought his brother looked far old, far more mature than Alfred himself (though Alfred was all sharp angles and lanky limbs and far more awkward than manly, but he should still look older because he was a country now and Matthew was still a colony).

"I remember when you would run up to me and ask to play with you. And I could never hear you because you'd always whisper—and you should really speak up if you want to be heard—but I would always play with you in the end." Alfred sighed, eyes hazy with nostalgia. "We had so much fun together."

"The answer is still no, Alfred." Matthew said quietly, staring at his brother over the brim of the cup. He knew that his brother's visit was just another attempt at coaxing him to rebel against Arthur. But, despite this, he welcomed the other. He was feeling a bit lonely and even though he and Alfred's relationship was still tense, the other was still his brother and it was war and Matthew hated to admit it but he forgave easily.

"I wasn't going to—"

"Yes, you were." Matthew said softly, his eyes shimmering dark violet. "I am content and I don't need you to 'save' me." He smiled indulgently at his elder brother.

Alfred's lips nearly twisted into a scowl, but he held back. Matthew was, obviously, confused but he wouldn't push the issue. If his brother wanted to waste away under the thumb of a selfish, cold tyrant—

"Don't say that." Matthew snapped, voice trembling with anger.

Alfred didn't realize he had been voicing his thoughts aloud. Oh well, maybe it was time Matthew heard him out.

At least this time no capitals had been or would be burnt.

Hopefully.

"It's the truth." Alfred snapped. "He doesn't even remember you. When we all lived together, he'd always ignore you. He'd forget you were in the room."

"No—" Matthew fumbled for his words. Whatever smug look he had worn earlier was long gone. "I mean, maybe sometimes. But he would tell me stories and take me to town—"

"So he did the very least." Alfred snorted. Why was Matthew so stubborn? So blind? "Were you included in negotiations last time? Has he visited you since then?"

Matthew was silent and Alfred stood up and continued to speak as he made his way towards the smaller blond who was frozen in his armchair. "He forced you to speak English. Or have you forgotten the times he punished you for speaking French?"

Alfred knelt down in front of Matthew who stared down at the rug. He grasped the younger boy's face in his hands and forced him to meet his gaze. He could see hurt fill the younger boy's eyes and Alfred pushed ahead. "He abandons you. He expects you to obey him." Violet eyes shone wetly and Alfred pushed down any feelings of guilt. Matthew's tears, his pain, they would all be worth it once the other blond realized the truth. "He doesn't love you."

Matthew's breath hitched and as much as he wanted to push Alfred away, he couldn't help but hear his words. The other blond could be very charismatic when he wanted to be, and his words hit close to Matthew's heart.

Arthur couldn't possibly love him. Even when Alfred spurned him, Arthur hadn't stayed even though Matthew was loyal.

Even though Matthew did want him to stay, despite his anger.

Why couldn't he just…

"Would coming back with me be so bad?" Alfred whispered, pulling his hands away from the other's face. Warm palms slid down a pale neck, down the slope of his shoulders and stiff fabric until they rested on his narrow waist. Matthew's body trembled under his touch. "We'd be together. I would take care of you. You would never have to worry. I love you."

Matthew stared down into Alfred's boyish eyes. The young nation smiled encouragingly up at him.

Alfred's voice was so earnest and eager and Matthew wanted to believe that everything he said would happen. That Alfred would never leave him (like those strangers from long ago, like Francis, like Arthur) and that everything would be okay.

"Mattie." Alfred sounded more impatient now. His hands weren't satisfied at his waist, and instead they were navigating lower and Matthew could feel his face heating up and he wasn't really okay with these new feelings bubbling in the pit of his stomach because they felt _wrong_ and discomforting. But Alfred didn't seem to notice the way Matthew tensed up so maybe he was imaging things.

But Alfred's eyes were darker and more focused and when slender fingers tightened their grasp, Matthew gasped and shoved Alfred away. The elder blond fell backwards and pushed up onto his elbows to glare at the shaking blond.

"What was that for?" He snapped.

"Get out." Matthew said coldly, gathering his wits. "You lying, greedy Yankee."

Alfred looked shocked and a little offended. "I don't know—"

"I'm not yours to claim." Matthew glared at the other, who had the decency to look somewhat ashamed. And Matthew mentally kicked himself for forgetting, for even a moment, about his brother's territorial ambitions.

Alfred may have loved him. Alfred may have wanted to be with him.

But Alfred was a fledgling country with stars in his eyes as well.

With Alfred he'd still be in a gilded cage. But at least with Arthur, he could pretend.

* * *

"He's here?" Matthew stared wide-eyed at the servant.

"He wants to see you now." The young woman said, eyes shining with worry. "As you are."

Matthew stared at her. He knew he was a mess. The recent rebellions and battles had been a nightmare. He was feverish and shaky, head aching and he often found himself slipping into French and English until his words were a quivering mass of undecipherable noise.

He found himself torn between people, angry and frightened and proud.

And he really considered burning down his brother's capital again.

But, soon, Matthew found himself in front of Arthur's sturdy oak desk in his study. The room was musty and dust motes fluttered about in the air. The blond, wrapped in a dressing robe, watched them swirl in the weak sunlight, resolutely avoiding the burning emerald eyes across from him.

He really should have known better than to think that Arthur would not visit after the recent conflicts.

"Those responsible have been found guilty of treason. They have been dealt with accordingly." Arthur's voice was flat and Matthew found himself flinching at how frigid it was.

Matthew said nothing. He'd mourn silently for them. Traitors or not, they were his people.

"I'm disappointed in you Matthew." Arthur said, sounding regretful. "I expected better from you."

A soft apology slipped past his lips.

"I did so much for you. I raised you. Is this how you repay your Father?"

Matthew felt the stirrings of rage and clenched his jaw. He hadn't seen Arthur as a father in a long time.

"I'm disappointed."

"You are not the only one." The words slipped out before Matthew could stop them.

Arthur's shoulders tensed. "And what do you mean by that, boy?" He asked sharply.

"Nothing. I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"Explain yourself." Arthur scowled.

Matthew remained silent. The words and feelings that he had desperately been pushing away churned in his chest. He wanted to ask Arthur why he never visited, why he pushed him aside like a boring book. He wanted to ask if it was something he did, if it was because he wasn't good enough to persuade Arthur to stay. He wanted to rage against the Empire, accuse him of ignoring him on purpose, of abandoning him. He wanted to throw the unfairness of the situation, of his situation, at that impassive face.

He wanted to say, "It's because I'm not Alfred, isn't it?"

He wasn't Alfred. But he could be so much better. He was already better than Alfred because he stayed.

"Speak."

Matthew looked away.

_I'm too weak._

* * *

For the first time in decades, Arthur used the birch on his young colony.

After all, rebellious colonies needed to be kept in line.

And Matthew took the punishment silently, bore the rapid, stinging strikes. Vivid, scarlet stripes rose against a pale expanse, leaving the tender skin tattered with welts. When it was done, the colony, violet eyes hooded by translucent lashes, pulled on his shirt with shaking hands while Arthur watched, stone-faced. Then the empire sent him to bed, supperless.

The next day, Matthew avoided Arthur.

And Arthur was disappointed in himself.

But, as much as he wanted to, he couldn't bring himself to smooth those golden waves and tell the fledgling country, "I'm sorry, Matthew. You're a good lad and I'm sorry I had to do that." Because the last thing he wanted to do was push Matthew too far away (or further) from him.

But he was too British and love had taught him a harsh lesson.

In the end, all he said, as he was returning back to his dreary home, was, "It was for your own good."

* * *

Some notes:

1. Alfred cares about Matthew. But America wants to expand and there's a lot of land around...

2. There were some minor rebellions in Canada that were (I'm pretty sure) taken care of by England. Yes, Arthur used a birch on Matthew.

3. Arthur wants Matthew to stay and Matthew wants Arthur to stay. They're both kinda dense and blind. (Matthew and Arthur's relationship is probably not or wasn't as complicated as I'm making it out to be. But, that is the beauty of fiction~~~ -is shot-)

So, I hope you readers enjoyed this installment! Drop a review and let me know what you think of it! And (hopefully) see you next time! -prances off-


	3. Chapter 3

I won't lie, folks. I love this story because I feel I can really play around with Canada's relationships with England, America. Maybe I'll even work in France. XD (Heck yeah!). I feel like this is **the **only time I can do so. So I'm kinda milkin' it. But I do hope people find it interesting as well. Thanks to everyone who is following this story. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I like writing it. Thanks for reviewing and fav'ing and waiting for it to be updated. ILU~

Warnings: Alcohol use (legit warning, people), flashback (completely in italics), OOCness, slightly dark undertones

Pairings: hinted England/Canada

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

* * *

Arthur swirled his drink gently, watching idly as the firelight reflected off the gin. Drinking was something he enjoyed. He relished the burn the liquid left in its wake as it slid down his throat. He enjoyed the warm feeling it gave him. Some called it a vice, a weakness.

He called it a distraction.

True, it did turn gentlemen into criminals, good law-abiding citizens into monsters. If one didn't know their limits, one would lose control and wake up, ill from excess and with regret. But Arthur didn't find any reason to worry. He was a gentleman and a criminal and a monster. He woke up with regrets after a night filled with phantoms of horrors past so often even the servants stopped questioning the shrieks and blood-shot eyes. He was a sinner and a saint, all at once. Drinking changed nothing.

Besides, nations had worse vices than alcohol.

Yes, he was most likely drunk. Good.

"Arthur." A soft voice, a mere whisper, cut through his musing and emerald eyes flickered toward a slender blond boy standing at the door of his study. Arthur hadn't even heard Matthew enter.

The faeries twittered around his head, bell-like laughter filling his ears. With a slight frown, he gently batted the incessantly flickering creatures away, not in any mood to deal with their cheer when he was in such a mood. Not offended in the least, the faeries fluttered over to Matthew and twirled around him, their light illuminating the concerned expression on his face. However, Matthew didn't notice the magical creatures orbiting him and instead moved closer to the empire sprawled in an armchair in front of the fireplace.

"Did you need something Matthew?"

If the violet-eyed boy was surprised that Arthur remembered his name, he didn't show it.

"I planned to ask you the same." He said with a gentle smile. "You've been brooding here all day. Do you plan to sleep here as well?" Matthew asked teasingly, coming to a stop in front of Arthur. Without hesitating, the boy eased the glass away from his guardian and set it on the miniature table next to the chair. "Have you been drinking the entire time?"

"That is none of your concern." Arthur responded coldly, eyes flashing and reminding the colony of his place.

Violet eyes hardened for the briefest moment before softening. The action did not go unnoticed by Arthur. "Of course. I apologize for bothering you." With a slight tilt of his head, Matthew turned on his heel. But before he could walk away, Arthur's hand shot out and grabbed his wrist.

"Don't."

Matthew's shoulders stiffened and, though he glanced warily at the older man, allowed himself to be pulled down until he was perched precariously on Arthur's knees so that the arm of the chair was digging into his back and he could look down at Arthur.

"I'm not drunk." Arthur mumbled, arm looping around Matthew to hold the boy in place. "I just don't want you to leave. I want to hold onto you."

And Matthew knew his guardian was in one of _those_ moods. The moods had began shortly after Alfred successfully declared independence and increased as the new nation grew in strength and challenged the other older nations to tread on his side of the world. Arthur would sulk for hours in his study, drinking. Of course, the empire also spent hours in his study working. So Matthew never really knew the reasons for his self-imposed exile until he spoke to the man himself.

During these moods, Arthur would brood, feeling the weight of an empire on his shoulders. He'd snap at any servants who made the slightest mistake—once making a new maid burst into tears for adding too little milk in his tea. He'd reminisce to whomever in earshot about his darling Bess and Will. He'd talk about the Crusades and of sailing the sea. He'd curse his elder brothers, the Vikings, France. He'd rant about ungrateful colonies and disrespectful upstarts.

He'd also remember Matthew without fail. He'd call for him, if Matthew never came. And not once would his eyes drift to the side, trying to recall who the youth was in front of him. He'd never slip and say 'Alfred'. He'd be affectionate, often pulling Matthew close to him (just like he was now).

Matthew hated it when Arthur got like this. He hated the way the other would sulk and say 'Alfred this' and 'Alfred that'. He'd hate the way he'd go on about how he'd like to 'dismember that flamboyant frog and show him how a real empire behaves'. He'd hate the way Arthur would pet him and tell him stories about his childhood.

He hated how Arthur seemed to remember him the best when he was at his worst.

"You hated me so much, Matthew." Arthur said softly. "You refused to speak when you first came to live with me. And you hated it when I would pick you up or pat your head."

Matthew could feel calloused fingers idly stroking his side.

"You would always cry for that frog. You have always been so cold to me."

Matthew bit his lip, trying to keep back the retorts that danced on the tip of his tongue. He may have been distant at first, but then it was Arthur who left. "I'm sorry." He said, instead, blandly.

Arthur's fingers suddenly tightened. "Don't apologize. It makes you look weak."

Matthew stayed silent.

"I did my best. But you continued to call for _him._ You always loved _him_ more, didn't you?" Arthur whispered accusingly. Matthew felt his heart beat pick up. "Why don't you call me father? You did before. Why did you stop?"

_Because I realized I would only ever be a replacement for Alfred._

And Arthur, whose head was so clear earlier, was now muddled. All he could concentrate on was the strange way his heart ached and the warmth radiating from his colony and the way those strange eyes reflected the flickering fire. And Matthew said nothing, choosing instead to avoid Arthur's searching gaze.

"Won't you call me father?"

"No." Matthew whispered so lowly Arthur had to strain to hear it.

"Why not?" He asked sharply, feeling the ache intensify.

_Because I tried that once. Because its impossible now. Because you're not anymore._

Matthew just smiled sadly. "I'm sorry."

* * *

_Arthur read over the reports carefully. He needed to be kept aware about everything back home while he was across the ocean. As far as the court and parliament knew, the ever busy, dignified man who seemed to never lose favor with the king, was finally taking a holiday. They would twitter about how even the sternest and occupied man would fall prey to the stress of work. They'd make snide comments about how he wasn't as infallible as he acted._

_If they knew they were gossiping about their nation, they'd shut up quickly enough then._

_Looking up from his work, he gazed at the two boys playing on the carpet in front of the crackling fireplace. Well, one of them was playing. Alfred was setting up the wooden soldiers he carved in an amateurish battle formation. Such a strategy would never work in a real war. Arthur snorted. It's not as though the vivacious blond would ever have to worry about war anytime soon._

_Matthew, on the other hand, was quietly curled on top of his white bear. Matthew, before they had left Europe, had cried (in French) that bear had been a companion since the beginning and pleaded with Arthur to let it stay. Arthur, wanting to make a good first impression, agreed. And though he had hoped that Matthew would see what an understanding man he was, only got a strange look from the boy before the little blond ignored him for the duration of the voyage._

_Now, the child was staring distantly into the fire, small hands curled into the bear's fur._

_Arthur frowned. The boy had been painfully quiet since their arrival. Though he and Alfred had gotten along well together their first visit, the two seemed to have lost interest in each other. Matthew, instead, played with his bear and idly flipped through brightly colored picture books and explored the wilderness behind the manor._

_"Alfred," Arthur said, clearing his throat. The boy, who was banging together two wooden soldiers and clumsily mimicking the rumbling of canons, turned bright blue eyes towards his guardian. "Why don't you share with Matthew?"_

_Alfred's face scrunched up in distaste. "I don't want to! You made them for me Iggy!" Mouth set in a severe pout, Alfred crossed his arms and turned away. The display of selfishness and insolence was quite distasteful, in Arthur's opinion. But just as he was about to open his mouth to scold his young colony, Matthew tumbled off his bear and slipped out of the room, bear waddling slowly behind him._

_"See! He doesn't even want to play." Alfred announced triumphantly, going back to his toys._

_With a sigh, Arthur stood up and stretched before hunting down his new colony. Luckily he caught the boy as he was making his way down the hallway, bare feet pattering against the hard wood. Quietly, Arthur snuck up and lifted the child up and pulling him close._

_Matthew didn't like the action._

_"S-stop struggling, Matthew!" Arthur said, trying to keep his voice gentle as the toddler began to kick and try to tear himself out of the man's grip. The bear growled threateningly up at Arthur. "Calm down, luv." Matthew stopped trying to twist out of his grip and instead stared stubbornly down at the floor. "That's a good lad. Now, do you want to go back to the room?"_

_Matthew shook his head._

_"How about a nice snack?" Matthew shook his head harder and began to struggle again._

_"Alright, fine. You did have dinner not too long ago. Do you want to go to your room?" At this Matthew nodded and let his self be carried back to his room. The room was plain, but had all the things Arthur believed necessary for a growing child. Matthew didn't seem to particularly like it, but Arthur refused to coddle the boy. Knowing Francis, the boy was probably already soft from being over-indulged by that poncy twit._

_Pulling back the coverlet, Arthur set the child on the firm bedding. The little blond, who was already dressed for bed, obediently rested his head down on the pillow and let Arthur tuck him in. "Would you like a story, Matthew?"_

_Matthew shook his head and buried his face into his pillow. Arthur sighed. "How much longer do you plan to continue this act?"_

_In response, Matthew rolled over and squirmed until he was at the opposite edge of the bed. Arthur scowled. Ever since he told Matthew to only speak in English, the boy had refused to speak at all. But because the boy was so tiny and young and Arthur hesitated to punish his impertinence, he let the boy continue his little rebellious act._

_Let him cling to his French. It didn't change the fact that he was Arthur's now._

* * *

The next day, Arthur gave no indication of remembering the previous night. Matthew didn't say anything either.

"I plan to leave at the end of this week." Arthur said briskly, setting down his teacup. Matthew stopped pouring maple syrup on his charred porridge and turned wide eyes on the older nation.

"You only just arrived…" He said softly.

"Yes, well. There seems to be something rotten brewing in the Continent. It would be best for me to return as soon as possible." Arthur said, watching as Matthew nodded and went back to pouring the syrup. Wavy golden bangs fluttered down to shield the colony's face and an awkward silence settled over them, oppressive and cold. The barest flare of guilt filled his chest at the dejected slump of Matthew's shoulders, so he added, "I will return once matters settle."

Matthew chose not to mention how Arthur always said that…before coming back almost a decade later. "Hopefully all will be well." He replied, focused on his task.

* * *

Yes, I did mention events leading up to WWI. So, I don't know how I feel about this chapter. I just wanted drunk, moody, possessive England and long-suffering Canada and a flashback scene. -sighs- I might go back and rework this chapter. I don't know yet. I like this story, but writing this chapter was difficult (and also a distraction from studying for an art midterm...) So, right. I'll just decide later. Thanks for reading everyone! Let me know what you think! G'night! -rolls into bed-


	4. Chapter 4

Warnings: OOCness, potential historical inaccuracy, mentions of war and violence

Disclaimer: I claim no ownership.

* * *

Matthew is stone-faced, sitting on the edge of a trench, legs hanging listlessly into the empty space. His golden hair—shorn short in a style more reminiscent of Alfred's hairstyle—is grimy, dark with mud and blood and sweat. The boy had taken refuge in the spot after doing his part to carry the dead—his dead. He had been one of the last to stop working, wordlessly slipping away in the heavy silence of the camp.

Arthur watched him, surreptitiously, the entire time. Even when his commanders addressed him, his watchful eyes drifted to his colony, that had shown up—despite his express disapproval—under a false name even—Williams, really?

There wasn't much Arthur could do or say. Steven and Michael and Joshua had stubbornly enlisted at well—to a much less successful end, Arthur winced, sober thoughts of the failed Gallipoli campaign coming to mind. Arthur knew he needed all the help he could get, especially since that useless idiot was taking his bloody time making a decision.

Arthur didn't know how it happened, couldn't pinpoint the moment that everything shot to hell. One day, he heard news of a navy to challenge his (challenge him? He was born among the waves. The ocean was his tempestuous mistress.) One day there was an heir, the next there was none. One day, the treaties failed. One day he woke up from a nightmare of Belgium's screams and found that he couldn't ignore it anymore. Ultimatums were issued, ignored all around and now here he was.

And now here was Matthew.

Finally, Arthur gathered his courage, adjusting his torn and filthy uniform, gun slung around his back, and stepped delicately towards his colony.

Matthew didn't say anything until Arthur stood directly behind him.

"I smell." He said bluntly, voice raspy.

"We all smell, lad." Arthur responded easily, gracelessly slipping down next to the blond.

Matthew's jaw tightened, ever so, and he didn't reply.

"It was brilliant." The Englishman said quietly. "Quick-thinking, my boy, will keep you alive during this war."

"No it won't." Matthew said suddenly, voice harsh. A trickle of blood formed at the corner of his mouth and trailed down the curve of his jaw, dropping onto his collar.

Arthur watched the crimson droplets fall from the other's mouth, realizing belatedly that Matthew must've inhaled some of the gas at some point. Thankfully, they weren't quite human so the effects must've been delayed and the boy was still healing.

"No." He amended. "But it could keep you alive longer."

Matthew sighed, violet eyes sliding over to look at him. "I'm going to die over here aren't I?" He stated, completely resigned and Arthur hated it.

But he couldn't bring himself to tell the boy otherwise. He wanted to smooth away the tenseness in the other's brow. He wanted to reassure the boy.

In the end, he only had a few words for the other.

"We need you." He said firmly. "I need you, Matthew."

Matthew just looked away.

* * *

"Where is he?" Alfred demanded, glasses askew and filthy as he stormed into the tent, wild-eyed.

"Calm down, git." Arthur said without looking up from where he was neatly stitching up a gash on Matthew's chest. "He'll be fine."

"He's _dead_." Alfred's face was now a deathly pallor, staring down in horror at his brother. "Oh Matthew…Matthew…" He murmured, moving forward and reaching out, hand wavering over his brother's still form.

"He'll be fine." Arthur snapped, a little colder this time as he snapped the thread and stepped away.

"Could you be even more of a heartless bastard?" Alfred snapped, blue eyes sharp.

"I'm not the one who sat twiddling his thumbs while the rest of the world—" The sandy-haired man catches himself, shaking his head viciously before leveling an imperious glare at the rising power. "Don't even think that you can stand there and judge me, you twat. When you were off making money off the rest of us and pretending that everything was right and dandy, I was here popping in his dislocated limbs and sewing up his mangled body—because your brother is just as foolhardy and pigheaded as you—"

"You guys are the ones using him as canon fodder." Alfred threw back, lips pressed into a tight, white line and an enraged flush on his cheeks. "A little bit of mud here and there and a stupid hill is worth the lives of all your little colonies, I guess—"

"You don't even understand." Arthur hissed, green eyes smoldering.

"I don't?" Alfred sneered. "You know why he's fighting for you right? He just wants your—"

"Please don't fight." A soft voice interrupted, dragging the attention of both countries as Matthew struggled to sit up.

"Don't stress yourself out, bro!" Alfred said hurriedly, all traces of fury disappearing from his face as he tried to push Matthew back onto the cot. "I'm here so it's all okay. I'll save the day, Mattie. I'll make things better so you don't have to worry."

Matthew looked a little wary, yet touched nonetheless. "I'm fine, Alfred. Its not the first time." He said tiredly before giving Arthur a small smile.

"Yeah, I heard!" Alfred said excitedly, looking all too much like a hyperactive puppy. "I heard the Germans were all like 'oh no not the Canadians' and then they all ran away like a bunch of pussies!" He laughed madly. "I bet Prussia was shitting his pants when you guys took that ridge. You're so hardcore Matt!" The blond clapped his brother on the back, a little too roughly thus eliciting a hiss from the violet-eyed boy and an angry curse from Arthur.

Arthur, who was still caught on Alfred's words before Matthew awoke, couldn't help but look at his colony a little closer, catching the shadows under his eyes and the vacant shade of his gaze. Grayish skin and burnt fingertips and a new devil-may-care attitude that had been absent before all began to connect as well as the slight glances Matthew gave him prior to battle.

As an Empire, he should have been pleased to know that his dominion knew his place and respected his authority to the extent he was willing to die for him.

He couldn't find any satisfaction in it.

Matthew's once too young face—still soft with childhood's touch—had sharpened. The boy was turning in on himself with each battle, with each fiery baptism. He was a little more self-aware and much more terrifying (a demon, Arthur had realized once he caught a glimpse of the other during combat).

Each time he looked at Matthew, he kept remembering the sullen little colony that had glared at him with enormous indigo eyes and the reserved adolescent whose face fell infinitesimally during each departure.

He ached for the child Matthew once was, if only because he yearned for a second chance to make things right. Now he had a young man who was still so very wounded and hesitant—like a young deer—and distant.

Somehow, the lad seemed broken and Arthur had the distinct feeling that he was to blame.

* * *

"Please take care of her." Matthew requested softly, scratching the docile black bear between its ears.

"Of course, my boy." Arthur said, reassuringly, watching with an affectionate smile as Matthew offered his hand for the animal to nuzzle at.

The younger man had a tiny little grin on his face—so much more earnest than the way his lips would half twitch, weary and wry. It was quite a charming smile, fitting for Matthew's demeanor, and when the other stood up, a blank look settling on his maturing features, Arthur frowned and searched for a way to bring it back.

He couldn't think of a single way.

Pinned to the other's lapel was a scarlet poppy, standing out in stark contrast to the drab color of Matthew's suit.

For a moment, Arthur considered, wildly, ordering an entire new set of suits for the young man, for his upcoming debuts and such, but as quickly as the thought came it disappeared. There was too little money and too much else to do and, without a doubt, Matthew would politely decline the gift. It would be an inappropriate gift, in light of recent sacrifices and explosive carnage and it was almost appalling, the idea of celebrating and giving gifts when so many died for peace.

The two stood in silence. And, surprisingly, it was Arthur who broke it.

"Matthew."

The boy looked at him inquisitively, a slender eyebrow quirked in interest.

Arthur stared at him for a moment, eyes tracing the strange way the other's face had aged, wizened. After a few years in the trenches, thousands of moments punctuated by cries and artillery, the millions of seconds of slowly unfolding terror as the wind-dragged gas moved closer and closer, leeching onto soft tissue and killing cruelly, and countless minutes of clenching a lifeless body, whispering prayers to an absent God and swearing to change your ways if those eyes would just open or if that finger would just twitch, and bloody hell that boy just wanted to die and please let him come back safely, and of huddling together underground, fingers pressed into each other's sides just to make sure you were still alive, and Arthur felt closer to Matthew than ever before.

What was a little honesty with the person who had willingly stood by you and died—again and again and oh God again and again and how could there be so much blood?—and still smiled at you like you were the best thing in their life?

"I'm so proud of you, Matthew."

Matthew looked a little dumbstruck before surprise then fury then resignation and finally something much softer settled in his expression.

He didn't make a snide remark (all I had to do was die for you, is that it? Or, are you sure its me you're proud of it?) or some polite statement (Thank you Arthur. I'm glad I could help). He could've. Heaven knew he had many things he wanted to say to Arthur that he wouldn't dare say under normal circumstances.

Instead he just smiled and leaned forward, pressing his lips chastely against the other's cheek in a fleeting kiss.

And then he turned around and headed home.

* * *

The first scene is during the Battle of Ypres. The second is during the Battle of Amiens. The third is post-war with Winnie the bear :D

Steven, Michael, and Joshua = Australia, New Zealand, and Newfoundland

Yeah, so, way late updating. I do have a reason. Its kinda a personal thingy. -sighs- The truth is, I was feeling really bad about this story. I'm not Canadian, you see. So I felt really dumb writing a story about something I don't really understand. Because this is pretty historical-based. I don't understand how Canadians feel at each junction of their history or how they feel about England and/or France. I barely understand my own country, the US. So, how can I possibly write about Canada? I actually felt really horrible because I was like "Who the hell do I think I am? I can't do this justice." So, even now I'm still not sure about what I'm doing or even understand what exactly I'm getting at it. I do like this story, even if I'm not even sure what the hell I'm doing. And a lot of people have asked me to update, something that I've been planning for months. I just didn't have the confidence. I still don't and I'm still very hesitant about this chapter.

So I updated. This story isn't in a very safe place, dear readers. I'm actually quite scared of it and of ruining it. I won't get rid of it, but I do often lack inspiration. So, if you guys wouldn't mind, what are some events that I can still write about where Canada and England interacted in some way.

I'd appreciate any and all criticism as well.


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